


Just like a tattoo, I'll always have you

by mickmillk



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Mickey gets a tattoo, disgusting sweet shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 02:50:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1763373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickmillk/pseuds/mickmillk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey Milkovich gets a tattoo. It might be inspired by his red headed boyfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just like a tattoo, I'll always have you

**Author's Note:**

> This was kind of based off a prompt. This fic was hard as shit for me so shout out to ellie for being my ever supportive beta during tHIS MOST TRYING TIME.

“See you in a week?”

Ian stands on the other side of the door with his bag swung over his shoulder, and the taxi driver beeps his horn impatiently where he’s parked on the street.

Mickey flips the cabbie the bird without taking his eyes off Ian, and the driver beeps some more. Mickey doesn’t think he’s ever hated someone more in his life.

“We gonna have a fuckin problem here?” He shouts. The driver throws his hands up in exasperation, but the noise finally stops.

“Fuckin asshole,” Mickey mumbles.

Ian smirks.

He looks down at the ground, and when he looks back up, the smirk is fading.

“I’ll miss you,” he says earnestly.

Mickey doesn’t doubt it for a second.

His heart rate increases, like it always does when Ian says sappy shit, but he rolls his eyes for good measure.

“S’a fuckin week,” he reminds him, but bunches his fist in Ian’s shirt collar to bring him down for a kiss nonetheless.

Ian is breathless when they break, looking at Mickey like he’s the moon and the stars and the entire goddamn galaxy.

To Ian, he is.

Mickey never thought anyone would ever look at him that way. Never knew he wanted it. But he does. Needs it, even. The thought makes him realize how fucking dependent he’s come to be on Ian, so he forces a smile and tells him to hit the road.

“A week,” Ian repeats.

Mickey already misses him.

Standing in the doorway, he watches as the cab turns the corner in the distance, and Ian is gone. He stands there for a little while longer, contemplating his plans for the day.

Without Ian, he doesn’t really have any. He wrinkles his nose at the realization.

It’s going to be a long week.

-

Mickey shows up at the Alibi for – well for no reason really. He has the day off, and usually he stays as far away from the bar as possible when he’s not collecting wank money from cheating husbands or lonely blue collar workers.

But he’s fucking _bored._

He sees Kev behind the bar, wiping down glasses with a dirty rag, but other than him and a few regulars, the bar is mostly empty.

Kev looks up and acknowledges him absentmindedly, then looks down again. His head whips back up when he realizes it’s Mickey who’s just walked in.  

Turning to survey the calendar behind the bar he realizes that Mickey is, in fact, off today. When he turns back around, his eyebrows are furrowed.

“The hell are you doin here” he asks, confused. “Someone jip you for a handy?”

“Fuck off,” Mickey scoffs, pulling up a chair. “Ain’t no one here gonna try and jip me for a handy.”

Kev grins as he pours Mickey a beer and shakes his head, knowing he’s right.

“You alone?” He questions.

Mickey wants to kick him for the reminder.

“Where’s Ian?” He places the beer in front of Mickey and rests his hands on the bar, throwing the dirty rag over his shoulder.

Ignoring him, Mickey chugs the entire thing in one go while Kev watches with wide eyes. He slams the glass down and shoves it forward, prompting him to refill it.

“Out of town,” he finally says, and then he burps, and he leaves it at that.

He’s still getting used to people knowing about him, let alone about him and Ian. Not that he really minds it anymore, the only person who would give him shit is Terry and he’s in prison, so. Mickey doesn’t really have much to worry about aside from himself.

Doesn’t mean he wants to talk about it, though.

Kev takes the hint and continues cleaning glasses behind the bar, ignoring Mickey to talk to other customers but repeatedly fills his glass when he’s prompted to do so, which is often.

-

It doesn’t take long until Mickey is spectacularly plastered.

His phone has been in his jacket pocket all day, on vibrate, as usual. So it isn’t until he reaches for his wallet to pay his tab that he remembers it’s even there.

Taking it out, he sees that he’s got 3 missed calls: two from Ian and one from Mandy.

He curses under his breath and slips off the chair a little to put his feet on the ground, placing his phone on the bar. When he stands he realizes he’s a bit more drunk than he thought he was, or ever planned on being. The room sways, and he grabs the bar for support, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing through his nose.

He decides to sit back down.

Getting home is gonna be a bitch.

His phone lights up and vibrates loudly against the bar, and he thinks he might puke.

“Fuck offffff,” he mumbles, shoving it away. He folds his arms and lays them on the bar, resting his forehead against them. Talking is just going to make him feel worse.

Kev, of course, takes it upon himself to answer it, setting it to speaker phone.

“Ian!” he begins by yelling. “My 3rd favorite Gallagher child.”

“Kev?” Ian questions, and his voice is the greatest thing Mickey’s ever heard in his life. “Where’s Mickey?”

“Loverboy is out of commission,” Kev grins broadly. “Something about a certain red head leaving him all alone while he goes out of town, I don’t know the details. Sounds pretty messy though. Might want to get back before he drinks South Side dry.”

“You don’t even know what commission means,” Ian retorts.

Mickey’s head is still down, but he puts one hand flat out in the air to ask for his phone without looking up.

When he feels it being set into his grasp, he puts it to his ear.

“Hello,” he greets unenthusiastically, and winces when Ian’s voice comes back louder than he had anticipated through the speaker phone.

“Christ, give me a fuckin second,” he mutters, concentrating on the lights on his phone to tap the correct button to take him off.

“Yeah?” He tries again, once things are back to normal.

“Just wanted to say goodnight,” Ian answers. “Called like 4 times.”

“Twice,” Mickey corrects, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “How’s your trip?”

He listens to Ian ramble about his flight and how he got bumped to first class because the airline screwed up his ticket, and slaps a couple bills on the bar to pay for his drinks before walking out without saying goodbye.

-

Warmth in the form of Ian’s voice fills his veins, sobering him a little along with the cool night air.

‘A little’ being an understatement, he’s still having trouble standing straight and his thoughts are addled by sweet things Ian’s voice is conjuring up, things that in other circumstances would make Mickey call someone a bitch.

Not that he’s in the state of mind to control himself right now, or to care.

“Gallagher,” he slurs, interrupting Ian mid speech. “Would you – can ya shut the fuck up for a second? Jesus I need - I wanna say something, alright?”

Ian laughs in his ear, and Mickey wants him right by his side.

“How drunk are you?” he asks, amused.

“Shut the fuck up” he repeats, and then he pauses, leans back against a wall somewhere and runs a hand over his face, gathering his thoughts.

All that’s there, all that’s _ever_ there, is _Ian, Ian, Ian._

“Ian.”

“You alright, Mick?”

“Yeah I’m fuckin alright, what are you my mother?”

The phone slides out of his grip and tumbles to the ground with a loud cracking noise.

“Goddammit! Piece of shit, stupid - fuckin..”

Bending to pick up his phone, he inspects it to see that it is free of cracks, and puts it back to his ear.

“-llo? Mickey? You hang up on me? Jesus Christ I leave for one da-“

“Keep your fuckin panties on Gallagher.”

“How are you even drunk by the way, I just left you 4 hours ago. And it’s 3 in the afternoon.”

“What, there a fuckin time limit on when a grown man get throw a fuckin beer back?”

When Ian doesn’t respond, Mickey misses his voice a little already.

“Shit ain’t so fun around here without you,” he admits, half because he means it, half because he wants Ian to talk some more.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you just said something semi romantic,” Ian jokes.

Romantic?

Romance is something Mickey has always found overrated. _It’s for girls and for pussies._

But Ian.

Ian is into romance, and he’s not either of those things.

Mickey once joked about laying a blanket out and lookin for stars, but Ian’s eyes had lit up brighter than the stars themselves. And shit if it wasn’t the most beautiful thing Mickey had ever seen.

He can try romance, if that’s what Ian really wants.

“I fuckin – shit I know I don’t - or whatever I just – I’m tryin, alright?”

Silence greets him again, and Mickey takes his phone away from his face to see if the call is still connected.

It is.

“You listenin to me, Gallagher?”

“You’re not really sayin much,” Ian points out.

“Shit,” Mickey mutters. He knows he’s not good at this stuff but he never really realized just how _bad_ he was at it.

“Your eyes,” he blurts. And okay, this is a start. It’s not a good start, but. It’s a start.

“My eyes?” Ian questions. “What about my eyes?”

“What about your eyes,” Mickey repeats under his breath. “They’re fuckin green!” He yells.

Ian laughs out loud.

“Alright,” he says. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” he says stubbornly. “Your hair’s stupid. Red and stupid and –“

“Thanks, Mick.”

“Let me finish!” he says, frustrated. This really isn’t going well.

“It’s stupid but it’s fuckin great, man. Never thought I’d be into gingers.” He mumbles the last part, it’s mostly a statement meant for himself anyway.

It’s not really true; he’s not into gingers per say, he’s into Ian. Ian who makes him think and feel and want things he never knew existed, Ian who makes him _whole._

“I’m so – shit I’m fuckin gone for you, firecrotch. You know that?”

Ian giggles softly, and maybe this isn’t going as bad as he originally thought if it’s making Ian happy.

“I love you, Mickey” Ian says quietly.

Mickey’s heart soars.

“Yeah, well,” he trails off, his cheeks heating.

He feels it, is the thing. It’s right on the tip of his tongue when Ian is driving into him, or when they’re side by side afterwards, wearing nothing but each other’s sweat and spunk, or right now even, when Ian is a thousand miles away and Mickey misses him so much that it feels like a piece of him is missing.

He’s never really been able to say what he means, what he feels. A Milkovich curse, maybe. Never been one for words. He’d rather show Ian he loves him than tell him. Anyone can say anything, doesn’t mean they mean it.

A sign across the street blares bright with neon colors, shining like a beacon, directing Mickey’s attention.

 _Ink Inc_ it says.

And Mickey gets a really stupid, drunken idea to show Ian just how much he really loves him.

-

Ian has Mickey pinned to the wall in the hallway before the front door even shuts.

Their hands are in each other’s hair, in each other’s shirts, their tongues are roaming, tasting, claiming.

 _Missed you_ , Mickey thinks.

“Missed you,” Ian breathes.

Mickey groans when Ian’s teeth press into his neck, marking him, and he tears Ian’s shirt a little in his haste to get it off, the buttons popping off and rattling to the floor.

“I loved that shirt,” Ian whines, pulling away, and Mickey lets out a breathless laugh because _who gives a fuck about the shirt_ , his boyfriend is home.

Ian gets his revenge though, takes Mickey’s plain white t-shirt and shreds it with his hands, the sound of ripping fabric loud and significant in the following silence.

“Tough guy, huh?” Mickey’s voice is thick with want, and he surges forward with a grin, his mouth like a magnet to Ian’s.

But Ian puts his hand out to stop him.

He’s staring at Mickey’s chest, and Mickey looks down, remembering.

That’s the thing about getting a tattoo when you’re not even sober enough to stand straight. If you don’t necessarily remember getting it, you kind of forget it’s there sometimes. It felt like a good idea at the time, but now Ian isn’t saying anything, won’t even look at him, so he pretty much feels like a jackass.

 A strange mix of anticipation and nervousness clouds his senses while he waits for Ian’s reaction.

“You got a tattoo,” he finally says, and his eyes still won’t meet Mickey’s.

“Uhh, yeah,” Mickey replies awkwardly, scratching the back of his head.

“It’s an “I”, Ian states, finally looking at him. “You got an “I”?

Mickey clears his throat.

“For Ian.”

He winces internally at how unsure of himself he sounds. He likes a lot of the things Ian makes him feel, but nervous and uneasy are not among his favorites.

Kind of doesn’t matter at all though, with the way Ian is looking at him now.

His eyes are shining, his grin is slowly taking over his face, and every instinct that Mickey has ever felt in his life is telling him to run, to say something snarky and sarcastic and to mock the moment, to ruin it.

But he plants his feet.

He keeps his mouth shut.

He lets himself feel. Lets Ian feel.

Ian, who is reaching out and tracing the letter where it’s been imbedded into his skin, right over his heart. Right over the place where like the ink, Ian himself has made a permanent home.

“You’re insane,” Ian murmurs, but he’s smiling so hard that Mickey is concerned about the safety of his face.

-

Later when they’re tangled in the sheets, slick with each other’s sweat and come, Ian traces the letter again, this time with his tongue, sucking a mark over his initial while Mickey cards his fingers through his hair.

He hums appreciatively and lays his head down on Mickey’s chest, holding him close.

And Mickey feels it.

It’s been there all day, that feeling he gets whenever Ian is involved. All week, when Ian never once left his thoughts.

He feels his heart beat under Ian’s head, and it seems loud in the silence, as if every pump sounds out Ian’s name.

It’s only fitting.

“Goodnight, Mick,” Ian says softly.

“I love you,” Mickey responds, because he does.

Ian looks up at him and smiles.

Placing his hands on either side of Mickey’s torso, he leans down and kisses him softly, just once.

“I know,” he replies, and rolls over, pulling Mickey in so his back is to his chest.

“Shit head,” Mickey throws in, just because he can.

But he hugs Ian tighter around him, and falls asleep with a smile on his face, with love in his heart, the scripted “I” bold and permanent, just like his Ian.   

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be about matching tattoos buuuuuuuuut clearly I did not stick to the script entirely (whoops). as always I am at makesmefreee.tumblr.com if you'd like to come chat :D


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